


of a feather

by puckity



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Flirting, Friendship, Gen, General Schmuckiness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puckity/pseuds/puckity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just another one-too-many-bird-puns kind of day for Clint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of a feather

**Author's Note:**

> A cheer-you-up mini fic written on the fly for [steverogersorbust](http://steverogersorbust.tumblr.com/). She asked for Clint being more than just a one-note asshole; I hope this delivered!
> 
> Unbeta'd. You can also follow me on [Tumblr](http://puckity.tumblr.com/).

Clint doesn’t like the roof of Avengers Tower. It’s a strong sentiment, he knows, but he stands by it.

The roof is glitzy and tricky slick and he can’t get a decent foothold and it’s all either out in the open or impractical blind spots and really, it’s more of a target than a lookout. Clint sees better from afar, but only if the line of sight isn’t blocked by energy efficient LEDs and the architectural equivalent of a vanity license plate.

But it’s the joke, the punchline— _Clint, you’re a_ bird _, don’t you like your nest?_ —and when he gets irritated and petulant he starts up out over the glass and plants his ass directly above the breakfast nook. He’s threatened a brunch mooning on several occasions, but Natasha said that she’d use the Widow’s Bite on his hawk eggs if he did so he didn’t. Yet.

“Don’t fly the coop today, Clint.” And it’s Steve _of all people_ whose voice wafts out the widows; Clint can hear the sly smirk that takes the edge off the Captain’s commands and who would believe it but Steve Rogers can be a needling little shit when he wants to be. It’s not often, that he wants to be. But sometimes.

Clint stares out against the flat gray overcast that hangs from building to building. _It’s gonna rain, you don’t have to_ _see_ _far_ _for_ _that._

But not yet.

“That an order, Cap?”

“If you need someone to order you not to get drenched in your undershirt and slip and fall to your death, then yes it is.”

Clint almost can’t believe that he keeps an autographed photo of Captain America taped to the inside of his closet door.

“Besides, I’m bringing a friend to keep you company.”

Across the East River, maybe in Brooklyn or Queens, a streak of lightening trips along the skyline. Clint thinks that if he could fly, he’d probably fly right for it. It’s why he’d make a lousy hawk in the end.

“You can tell Falcon that we’ve already got one too many birds of prey in this tower.”

Clint hears Steve snort soft and low, or he thinks he hears it—his ears aren’t what they used to be.

“You can tell him yourself.” The widow—for all Stark’s technological prowess—still squeaks when it shuts. Not all the way; there’s still just enough for Clint to slip back inside.

\---

Clint prefers balconies, ledges, shelves in a pinch. His favorite spot is on the semi-permanent scaffolding that reinforces the walls on the main training floor. He sees all kinds of things from there.

“Why do I have to do it? Why can’t _he_ do it?” Sam Wilson is complaining—whining, really—but Clint is hiding behind plastic painters’ sheets and eavesdropping so he doesn’t judge too much.

“You know how he is.” Steve scratches at the hair behind his ears. “I do tease him a lot—but only because I like him.”

Sam crosses his arms loose across his chest. “You tease _me_ a lot too.”

“Yeah,” Nothing about Steve is particularly subtle—up to and including his flirting. “I do.”

They stand silent, staring at hands and over shoulders and Clint wants to shout _Just kiss already!_ but he can’t quite. Probably because he’s bitter or jealous or a sap or a schmuck.

Or something.

Eventually Steve moves away, sways more than walks, and Sam stays. His back is to Clint but its lines are taut and sharp and Clint knows he knows he’s caught.

“You really gonna make me come all the way up there?” Sam turns and plants his hands hard on his hips. Clint doesn’t come out per se, but he doesn’t actively try to hide either.

“You really gonna leave yourself open for a bird joke like that?”

Sam snorts loud and distinct and he rolls his eyes and they go together somehow. He drops his arms all dramatic-like and sighs and drags his feet to the metal piping like Baron Zemo’s got a blade to his back. Clint unfolds himself from a crouch and hangs his legs over the side of the ledge.

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that Barton.” Sam climbs strong but not as agile as Clint; the scaffolding shakes a little under the shift of his weight.

“Yeah,” Clint picks at the calluses on his fingers. “I know.”

“And for a super spy, you aren’t all that stealthy.” Sam settles next to him but leaves a palm’s width between their thighs.

“I was _purposefully_ not being stealthy.” Clint winces as he rips live skin off with dead. “There’s a difference.”

“Mmhm.” Sam drapes his arms over the makeshift railing and they sit in the quietness and Clint wants to say should say almost says—

Sam clears his throat. It’s uncomfortable and Clint is suddenly kind of relieved to see that the typically unflappable Sam Wilson can get awkward too.

“So you wanna tell me why you’re in such a bad mood today?”

Clint stretches back, away from Sam. “Guess I just miss the circus popcorn.”

Sam stares at him sideways and Clint shrugs.

“If you’re doing the therapist, I’m doing the carny.”

Sam scoffs; his head drops a little. “Touche.” The air they share back and forth strings tight like a bow.

“Steve’s worried. He thinks you kind of hate me.”

“He shouldn’t worry.” Clint folds his hands over and over again in his lap. “I’m just an asshole.”

“Nah,” When Sam leans back it’s with his whole body, like he’s ready to soar. “You’re just a fool—like the rest of us.”

Sam’s got a half-healed gash peeking out from under the sleeve of his t-shirt and Clint doesn’t think there’s been a mission recent enough to justify it but maybe he caught his arm on a cabinet or a stray corner or a coat hanger. Clint wakes up with cuts and bruises that he’s almost sure he didn’t go to sleep with, and they slow him down more than they would the others. Maybe Sam takes in stray cats and gives them names like Catscratch Fever and maybe they show their gratitude in equal parts purrs and claws. Maybe the soft spots slow Sam down some too.

Clint doesn’t know, but he’d be willing to make a reasonably confident bet that under it all he and Sam might just have clipped wings to match.

“I don’t hate you, by the way.” Clint tilts his shoulders and his whole body tips towards Sam, just a bit. “Not even kinda.”

Sam’s hand presses flat, palm down, on the rough wood planks between them. His pinkie almost reaching the outer seam of Clint’s pants.

“Good.” Sam smiles soft and it’s too close too close for Clint to see so he shuts his eyes and exhales and maybe he smiles a little in return—who knows.

The air, the pressure, uncoils one spring at a time. “I’m glad.”


End file.
